


The Waitress and the Mafioso

by cydian_sonor, monkeysrool75



Series: DoroPetra Week 2020 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/F, Great Depression, Speakeasies, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23428510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydian_sonor/pseuds/cydian_sonor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkeysrool75/pseuds/monkeysrool75
Summary: Doropetra Week Day 4Sea“Bring her to me”Mafia AU~Dorothea works as a waitress at the Brigidian mafia's speakeasy and makes the biggest mistake of her life... or does she?
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Series: DoroPetra Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654231
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47
Collections: Doropetra Week 2020





	The Waitress and the Mafioso

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Petra is kinda OOC af but its an AU what are you gonna do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> THIS TAKES PLACE WITH POST TIME-SKIP CHARACTERS (i'm not tryna catch a case)  
> We may be able to actually do every day left if we go into over drive.... i'm very excited

Dorothea woke up to her stomach growling; she hadn't eaten the previous day. She rolled over on the lumpy mattress that lay on the floor of the tiny apartment she shared with 6 others. There wasn't really a point in trying to fall back asleep, as she had to get ready for work soon.  
  
She worked at a speakeasy owned by the Brigidian mafia. She’d first taken the job because it paid so well, but since the economy had tanked several months ago, her pay had dropped severely; now it amounted to practically nothing. No longer able to afford an apartment alone, she’d moved in with several other people in similar situations: a boy named Ashe who’d lived on the street until he’d recently gotten a job; two girls, Annette and Mercedes, who ran a run-down bakery; a freelance artist, Ignatz, who hadn't been hired in months; Raphael, a boxer who hardly boxed; and Ingrid, the daughter of a poor noble family who’d come to the city in hopes of finding a rich husband.  
  
Dorothea stood up from her incredibly modest sleeping arrangement and walked to the bathroom just as Ingrid walked out.  
  
“Oh, good morning, Dorothea,” the blonde whispered. Dorothea's stomach growled again before she got the chance to respond. The friendly smile on Ingrid's face fell into concern. “You didn't eat last night, did you?”  
  
Dorothea’s head sank. “Ingrid, listen. Raphael has a match today. He needed it more than I did…”  
  
“You can’t just not eat!” replied Ingrid, speaking as indignantly as she could without waking the others. “Stay here, Thea. I have a little food saved. I’ll split it with you.”  
  
“N- no!” stammered Dorothea, throwing an arm out to stop the blonde girl before she took off toward the pantry. “Ingrid, I couldn’t. I’m not letting you give up yours just to…” She trailed off as her stomach gave another morose grumble.  
  
“I’m getting you something, Dorothea,” Ingrid insisted.  
  
Flustered, Dorothea pushed past her blonde roommate and moved into the bathroom. “Not now,” she stated. “I have to get ready for work.”  
  
Ingrid stepped after her, catching her shoulder before she could close the door. “Dorothea… I can tell you’re just trying to be strong, but you don’t have to. I promise. Let me help you.”  
  
Sighing, Dorothea shook her head. “I’m… going to be alright. Please, don’t worry. I… I really have to freshen up now.”  
  
Ingrid forced a halfhearted smile. “Alright, Thea. I won’t force anything on you. But… if you change your mind, I’ll leave a little in the pantry for you.”  
  
“Thank you,” muttered Dorothea, returning Ingrid’s smile before she closed the bathroom door.  
  
Dorothea padded up to the dingy bathroom mirror and looked at her pale face in the reflection. Help me, it seemed to say back to her. She wasn’t going to be alright, and she knew it. She felt absolutely awful—not only physically, as her hunger was making her feel weak, but mentally as well, especially after the way she’d just handled that interaction with Ingrid. These times were hard on everyone. She knew Ingrid was hurting just as much as she was; by offering some of her hard-earned food, she’d only been trying to help. As wrong as it would have felt to accept Ingrid’s offer, Dorothea was also starting to feel like an idiot for refusing it.  
  
What good does it do anyone to try and be strong, she thought, when we’re all hurting?  
  
She washed up quickly, in contemplative silence. The hygiene arrangements of the tiny, crowded apartment left very little room for comfort; a real shower for everyone would lead to a water bill that none of them could afford, so instead, an old bucket and sponge sat on the floor of the tub. Dorothea filled it with hot water, added a bit of soap, and then stepped into the tub to begin sponging her naked body clean.  
  
How many months had it been since she’d had a real shower or bath? At this point, it seemed like forever. She always tried not to think about how much longer these hard times would last, yet she always found her mind wandering back to it. The economic slump, after all, was only getting worse.  
  
When she’d finished her meager washing, Dorothea threw on a cheap dress and began to set out. As she passed by the pantry, her mind dwelled on the tempting thought of the food Ingrid had said she’d left. But she shook her head, convincing herself once again that she had no right to take it.

፠፠፠፠፠፠፠

Dorothea walked out from the kitchen carrying a plate of the most popular dish that MacNeary’s served: máthair shúigh, a squid dish native to Brigid. She really must have been hungry, because she hated squid, yet still her mouth watered at the smell.

“Here you go, sir,” she said curtly as she placed the plate on the table. After an obligatory thank-you from the customer, she was back to wiping down tables. Goddess, she hated this job. One menial, thankless task after the next, all for a pittance of a salary in the end. That wasn’t even accounting for all of the men who sat around at MacNeary’s all day just to ogle her. This city was a major port, and the restaurant was right across from the harbor; that practically guaranteed a steady stream of dockworkers and mariners who were eager to see a pretty face and a pair of breasts.

“Looking appetizing as usual today, Miss Dorothea!” one man called out in a raspy voice as she rounded the table he sat at.

Dorothea gritted her teeth. “Save it,” she spat, not even looking his way.

If there was one positive aspect to all of these lowlifes, it was that almost none of them were regulars. Since they were always coming and going with the ships they crewed, Dorothea never had to deal with any specific one for more than a few days at a time. Her main duty at MacNeary’s was more suited to frequent customers—that is, customers who knew about the bar’s offerings that weren’t listed on the menu.

She turned her head as she heard the door swing open. “Hello, Miss Dorothea!” a familiar maternal voice called out. One such customer had just arrived.

“Oh!” she said, looking up from the table she was wiping down. “Morning, Ms. Casagranda! Things going well for you today?”

“If only any of us could say yes to that these days,” the woman replied, shaking her head. “But thanks for asking. You know, I’ve got a question to ask you.”

Dorothea smiled as she walked over. Manuela stopped by MacNeary’s almost daily, so she already knew what was coming. Leaning in toward Dorothea’s ear, the older woman whispered: “Do you keep your tea leaves refrigerated?”

“You know we do,” she responded. Those were the magic words that got you into the basement of MacNeary’s—the illegal bar. Dorothea led the other woman to the back of the restaurant and opened a trapdoor. Manuela nodded as she followed the stairwell down to where Balthus, the bartender, would take care of her.

When she walked back to the dining area, a new face was waiting to be served. At first, Dorothea didn’t know what to make of her. She wasn’t a regular, and by the looks of her, she hadn’t come from the harbor. With blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and toned muscles, she couldn’t be called unattractive, but something felt... off about her.

“Hello,” Dorothea greeted, apprehensive but not unfriendly. “Welcome to MacNeary’s. Can I get you anything today?” She flashed a plastic smile.

“I was thinking,” the blonde stated in a cocksure tone, “that… if you’ve got it, I’d really like a sweet-apple blend.” She gave a smirk that only furthered Dorothea’s suspicions.

As for what she’d ordered, Dorothea immediately recognized what she’d meant. It was the in-house codename for an alcoholic drink—her personal favorite cocktail, a Jack Rose. Under the strict prohibition laws that strained the country, such a drink would land anyone caught enjoying it with a prison sentence; those caught selling alcohol would suffer even worse fates. Being the actress she was, Dorothea didn’t let any of this show on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she stated. “A what?”

“You know,” the woman continued. “Tea? I know you’ve got it.”

“We don’t serve tea here, ma’am,” Dorothea insisted. “Would you care for a soda? We’ve got root beer, sarsaparilla, Crest-Cola...”

“Come on,” spat the woman, her tone growing angrier. “This place is owned by that Brigidian family, isn’t it? Real tea aficionados, that bunch.”

“Yes, but… ma’am, we serve squid here. Tea pairs horribly with squid.”

“Alright, Jane,” the woman snapped. “I’m tired of hearing you play dumb with me. I know all about the mob that owns this joint, and I know exactly what they’re serving.”

Dorothea had to work overtime to mask her mounting fear in her expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“I’m talking about alcohol.”

“We don’t serve illicit drinks, ma’am,” Dorothea said, keeping her voice from shaking. This woman was clearly a copper, and Dorothea wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep her cool in this situation. What if the law caught up with this establishment? What if it was shut down, and everyone here was arrested? Or worse—what if she fumbled her words and dropped the hint that would lead to all that? What the Brigidian mafia would do to her if they found that out, she didn’t want to think about.

To her sudden relief, a tall, muscular Brigidian man burst through the doors of the kitchen. It was Cathal, the head chef of MacNeary’s, as well as a high ranking mafioso.

“Are you having a problem, ma’am?” he asked, scowling. “I am not appreciating you harassing our waitress. I will have to be asking you to leave. Good day, miss.”

The blonde stood from her seat, visibly seething, but she turned to leave regardless. Without a parting word, she stomped off through the door and let it slam shut behind her. Dorothea let out a sigh of relief.

“I was not liking the look of her,” muttered the mafioso before he walked back to the kitchen.

፠፠፠፠፠፠፠

Dorothea spent the rest of the working day in utter discomfort. Her body was wracked by hunger, and her mind was tortured by the memories of that terrifying woman. As far as Dorothea was concerned, she was as close as anything came to proof that the law was closing in on MacNeary’s.

I have to get out of here, she thought over and over. They’ll rope me in with all these mafia thugs and send me straight to jail…

But what if she did quit now? Then what? A new opportunity for work would not be easy to come by; in this economic downturn, almost no one had the financial resources for a new hire. Her stomach growled viciously, as if to weigh in on her situation. Quitting wasn’t an option—not for now. If nothing else, she had to stick around for the promise of today’s pay.

Goddess, I need to eat, she thought. It had been torture working for hours surrounded by food, however unappetizing. At least the meager sum she would earn today would be enough to buy her something… wouldn’t it? She sighed to herself. All these sleazebags could at least tip me if they’re going to stare at my breasts all day.

Glancing up, she checked the clock on the wall. The end of her work shift was nearing. Another day of this, she thought. Maybe my last…

Dorothea stared down at the floor. And then what? Her fervent mind wouldn’t let that question go. What was today’s meager salary even going to matter, anyhow? Her savings were utterly depleted, and after she spent the tiny income on a meal to keep herself alive, she’d be absolutely penniless again. What would she do when other expenses reared their ugly heads? How was she going to keep living in these terrible times?

She looked up, and what she noticed then filled her with equal parts hope and horror. Her eyes fixed on the cash register on the counter.

Oh, no, no, no, she thought immediately, scolding herself for even daring to think about what she’d just thought about. I couldn’t steal. I wouldn’t. Least of all from the mafia. Yet it was as tempting to her as a royal feast would have been to her grumbling stomach.

She glanced around the room, unable to stop herself. The restaurant was practically empty—closing hours were drawing near, and the last few patrons were gradually spilling out. The few that still lingered were certainly not looking toward the cash register. They didn’t concern her, but Cathal, the chef, was another matter. Not only was he more likely to catch her in the act from his vantage point, but he also wasn’t just any restaurant employee—he was a notorious mafioso with a violent streak. If the rumors she’d picked up on were true, he didn’t just know how to use his kitchen knives for preparing meals.

Dorothea stole a glance through the window to the kitchen. Cathal was washing a pot, his back turned. This was as good of a chance as she would have if she really, truly wanted to…

Enough, her mind scolded her. Enough, Dorothea. Just because these times are trying doesn’t mean I should stoop so low…

And yet it looked so easy.

Dorothea swallowed, feeling her heart begin to pound. Gingerly, she stepped toward the cash register. Her actions almost felt involuntary, unconscious, yet she followed through with them all the same.

Damn this, she thought. Damn these times. Damn me. But she was committed now. Her hand was shaking as she pulled open the register’s tray, looking down at the bills and coins stowed away inside. There was more than enough money in this register to cover her needs for weeks. If she took just a little, would anyone notice it missing?

Her fingers seemed to freeze up as she reached inside the tray. For a second she hesitated—it was as if some sixth sense were warning her, screaming at her, to stop. Suddenly frightened, she whipped her head around to look back through the kitchen window.

Cathal was nowhere to be seen.

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. She would have to be quick now. Frenzied, she grabbed a handful of bills and wrenched them from the tray. The problem didn’t hit her until that moment, far past the point of no return: where would she hide them? Oh, why hadn’t she thought this through?!

That was when a heavy hand grasped her shoulder from behind, roughly jerking her backward. Dorothea shrieked as Cathal spun her around to face him. The mafioso’s face was contorted with rage; he looked like a rhinoceros about to charge. “Were you thinking you could be getting away with this?!” he bellowed. “You have much stupidity, stealing from the mafia like that!”

Dorothea whimpered. “I... I...” I what? What was there to say that would save her now? Was she really idiotic enough to think that this mafia thug would care in the slightest about how hard her life had been lately—about how she hadn’t eaten all day and didn’t know how she was going to continue? “I- I’m sorry!” was all she could manage.

“You are being sorry for what, broad?!” snapped Cathal. “For making the attempt to be snatching our cash?”

Dorothea’s head turned as two more burly men came stalking out of the kitchen door—evidently enough, they’d emerged from the trapdoor that led to the secret basement. It didn’t take much to conclude that they were mafia goombahs; she didn’t know their names, but she’d seen them lurking around MacNeary’s before. Dorothea shuddered as Cathal released her with a violent shove, only for both of the new thugs to grip her by the arms.

“I am thinking this canary is being due for a visit to the don,” barked Cathal, crossing his arms. “Don MacNeary will be having his way with you, thief. When he is being done with you, I am thinking you will not be thieving any longer... except maybe from the fishes at the bottom of the harbor!”

Not wasting a second more, the two goons dragged her out of the restaurant, making their way towards the warehouse that sat near the docks—the mafia’s headquarters. Struggling against her captors’ grip, Dorothea craned her neck to look up at the imposing building. Despite working at MacNeary’s for over a year, knowing full well she was dealing with the mafia all the while, she’d never had a reason to visit the warehouse. She was just a waitress in a speakeasy; despite the technical illegality of what she did, she’d never been involved in any organized crime. Now here she was; the way it was looking, the warehouse was going to be the last place she’d ever see.

A bullet to the back of the head, then thrown into the sea to be forgotten, she thought, dropping her head to watch her feet as they trudged on toward her death. I never thought that’d be how I’d go.

She thought about Ingrid and the others. Would they even find out what had happened to her? When she didn’t come home tonight, or the night after, would they go out looking for her, just to find nothing? She pictured Annette crying, Raphael feeling crushed for failing to look out for his friend. And Ingrid... her last interaction with Ingrid had been refusing a gesture of friendship, an attempt to help.

Dorothea forced her eyes shut, silently cursing herself. If she hadn’t sucked up her pride that morning and accepted Ingrid’s offering, would she have felt desperate enough to steal wantonly from the most dangerous people in town? I’d have been less hungry, she thought. That’s for sure...

They entered the warehouse through a plain metal door that faced the nearest alley. Inside, it was dark and musty, like the interior of a mausoleum. The two goombahs threw Dorothea onto the concrete floor. She stayed on her knees, looking up gingerly at the angular, graying figure that sat imposingly in the tall leather chair before her.

“Cén fáth ar thug tú an soith seo dom?” Don MacNeary said, sizing up the woman in front of him.

“Gabhadh í ag goid airgid ón mbarra,” replied one of the mafiosos. Dorothea looked between the two, trying to read the emotion on their faces—her Brigidian was limited to the names of menu items, and neither of them were discussing fried squid. She could, however, understand that the don was furious.

“An gceapann tú gur féidir leat éirí as an siondacáit choireachta a ghoid!?” he yelled at her.

Dorothea’s jaw quivered. She didn’t know how to respond to something she didn’t even understand, but she probably wouldn’t have been able to form words even if she did know what he’d said.

The don looked back to the men behind her. “Tabhair í do mo gariníon. Tabharfaidh sí aire don soith seo,” he spoke. Before Dorothea could react, the goons had taken hold of her arms again. They began to drag her deeper into the warehouse.  
“Wh-what did he say?” she asked. They didn’t respond, but why would they? Dorothea was a dead woman; she’d be in her grave by the end of the hour whether or not she understood why. The three arrived in a room with another tall leather chair with its back turned—smaller than the don’s, but still large enough to hide whoever sat inside from Dorothea’s view.

“Ghoid an soith seo ón mbarra,”announced one of the men as Dorothea was tossed to the ground yet again. “D'ordaigh do sheanathair dúinn ligean duit déileáil léi.” She kept her eyes locked on the back of the chair.

“Go raibh maith agat, díbhtear tú,” a voice spoke as the chair spun around, revealing its occupant. Dorothea’s mouth dropped open. It was… a woman?

She sat like a warrior princess in her leather throne, legs crossed, posture perfect. Her red-violet hair, half cascading down her shoulders and half tied up neatly, framed a lean face with a stern, unfazed expression. Under one eye was a ruddy mark—she’d seen similar tattoos on other Brigidian mafiosos, but never beneath an eye like that. Her neatly ironed button-up shirt, loose blazer, and tight black skirt perfectly complemented her authority.

Who the hell is this? Dorothea wondered, dumbfounded, as the imposing woman waved her hand at the two goombahs. Without a word, the lackeys turned away and left, showing as much reverence for her command as they had for the don’s. Now Dorothea was alone in her presence, and she wasn’t sure how to feel.

Why had she been brought to her? Just minutes ago, she’d thought her council before the don would be the beginning of the end. She’d have bet money, if she’d had any to bet, that the room Don MacNeary had sent her off to would be the place of her execution—some empty backroom awaiting her bloodstains. But now here she was, most certainly not dead yet, alone in a room with this woman—young, well-built, and... certainly not unattractive.

No—that was admitting too little. This woman was smoking hot.

What the—no! Why think that now?! But she couldn’t stop herself from thinking it. Much like the female cop who’d marched into MacNeary’s earlier that day, this woman paired beauty with power in an undeniably alluring package. But, in another similarity to that woman, everything about this one’s appearance seemed to foretell doom.

Almost everything.

“Be standing up,” she said, suddenly alerting Dorothea. Ever since she’d entered the warehouse, she hadn’t heard a word of her own language, so a command she recognized came almost as a surprise to her. “You have been groveling enough, I am thinking.”

Dorothea rose quickly to her feet, her limbs still shaking from the goombahs’ rough treatment. “I- I’m sorry!” she stammered.

“Do not be apologizing,” stated the woman in the chair. “It will be doing you no good here.”

Dorothea glanced at the ground, somehow too nervous to meet her captor’s eyes. “C- can I... may I ask...”

“My name is being Petra MacNeary,” came the woman’s reply, answering Dorothea’s question before she could form the words herself. “Don MacNeary is being my grandfather. He is sitting at the head of this mafia now, but he has great age. My father, his son, was being caught and killed many years back, so now I am to succeed him when his time of retirement arrives.”

“Why… was I brought to you?” Dorothea asked feebly. “The men who brought me here said they were taking me to the don, but… your grandfather only spoke in Brigidian, and next thing I knew, his men took me here.”

“My grandfather is not possessing any knowledge of this country’s language,” Petra said. “He is speaking only in the tongue of our homeland. The same is being true for many members of the mafia. All of us are coming from Brigid. Some have been spending more time here than others. I myself was choosing to be studying the language of this country. Is my linguistic form being satisfactory for your understanding?”

Dorothea quivered slightly, not sure how she should answer. “I... can understand you perfectly fine.”

“I have gladness to hear that,” said Petra curtly. “I must be explaining many things to you.”

Like how she’s going to kill me, Dorothea thought, but she didn’t dare speak it out loud. She looked at Petra in desperation, hoping it would cue her to shed some light on her situation.

“You were asking why my grandfather was sending you here,” the imposing Brigidian woman began. “The reason for that is being that I am needing experience in the carrying out of mafia duties. As I was being the daughter of the family MacNeary, I was living in much comfort for the most of my life. But these times are having much change. I have already been telling you that my grandfather is not foreseeing much more time that he can be keeping his position. If I am to be succeeding him, I must be learning the duties of a don with much diligence.”

“Wait,” muttered Dorothea, feebly extending an arm. “You’re saying Don MacNeary left my... punishment up to you?”

“Such is being necessary,” Petra said drily. “When I am taking the role of don, I will be having the choice of how to be giving punishments, among other duties of great necessity.”

Dorothea felt her heart sink. “Are you... going to kill me?”

Petra straightened in her chair. “A mafia don of much greatness,” she said, “is to be showing no remorse in the punishing of those who are crossing our organization. But I am not being exactly like my grandfather.”

“Wh- what do you mean?”

Petra slowly planted her feet on the ground and stood up from her seat, walking up to Dorothea with a slow stride. For how imposing the chair had made Petra look, Dorothea was surprised to see that the don’s granddaughter came up almost a head shorter than her. That, however, did nothing to make her seem less threatening. The speakeasy waitress felt like she was watching a hungry lion stalking up to her, ready to sink its jaws in, and she was so frozen with fear that there was nothing she could do. This is it, thought her frantic mind. She’s going to kill me.

“My grandfather,” she said, “has been seeing much violence in his lifetime. Before he was immigrating to this country, he was witnessing warfare in Brigid. In Adrestia, where he and his people were experiencing much harassment as outsiders, his solution of choice was to be adopting the same approach as in war. We Brigidians were banding together as a mafia. That was being how we were standing up for one another, our fellows who we were seeing as family. Often, that was requiring an approach of much violentness.”

Dorothea shivered when, suddenly, Petra extended a hand and touched her wrist. The Brigidian girl gradually stroked up Dorothea’s arm, sending shivers up the waitress’s spine.

“I am not having as much eagerness to be solving everything with killing,” Petra continued. “Especially for a person of your likeness.”

Something about those words made Dorothea’s heart race. When the fuchsia-haired Brigidian looked her in the eyes, her expression only furthered Dorothea’s suspicions.

“I have sureness,” said Petra, “that you are not being one for killing, mo áilleacht.”

No, she thought frantically. No, no, no. She can’t mean... She blinked, desperate to calm down, but could not pull her gaze away from Petra’s gleaming eyes. The desire she saw in those eyes should have been filling her with horror, but to her own dismay, the feelings she felt rising inside her were altogether different. She shook her head and gritted her teeth, but she simply could not stop thinking in that moment of how alluring Petra was—how her poise and confidence and grace made her so damn sexy.

“I’m sorry, Ms. MacNeary, I—”

“No,” the future don interrupted, placing a hand on the taller girl’s shoulder. “You will be calling me Petra.”

“Okay… Petra,” Dorothea replied, not quite comfortable addressing her so informally. “I’m not sure I’m reading this situation correctly, and I would make a total ass out of myself if I got it wrong…”

Petra pulled the brunette down to her height and thrust her lips onto Dorothea’s. The waitress instantly melted into her kiss, letting all the tension out of her muscles as she brought her arms around the Brigidian mafioso. Petra led the two back to her chair, then broke the kiss to claim her seat. Dorothea couldn’t voice her confusion before Petra issued a command: “You will be undressing for me.”

Dorothea should have said no. She should have run away; that was the logical thing to do. But she couldn’t. She found herself drawn to the mafioso—her authority, her elegance, her confidence, her everything. She couldn’t help but follow the woman’s orders.

Her face became as red as the dress she dropped around her ankles. Her hands slid up her back and unhooked her bra, letting her voluptuous breasts bounce as they were freed from their confinement. Her slender fingers caught the waistband of her panties, but she froze. She glanced over at Petra, who nodded for her to continue. Swallowing her pride, she pulled the final cloth from her body and let it fall to the ground. Her eyes followed the fabric, and she noticed the damp stain that had formed in the gusset of her lingerie. The Brigidan girl clicked her tongue, and once she’d acquired Dorothea’s attention, she waved her over with a single finger. The waitress timidly shuffled towards Petra, who pulled her into her lap.

“You are holding much beauty,” she said before she peppered kisses along Dorothea’s jaw and down her neck. She stopped to gently suck on her collarbone, but quickly continued to move her lips down until she reached the brunette’s breasts. She took one in her mouth and raised her hand to fondle the other. While her tongue ran circles around the areola, her fingers gingerly pinched and pulled at the other nipple. Dorothea couldn’t stop the moans from slipping out of her mouth. As Petra teased her breasts, Dorothea felt the ache growing stronger between her legs. Desperately needing release, she brought her hand down to her quivering folds.

Petra’s hand quickly slapped Dorothea’s away. “Deireadh leis sin anois!” she shouted. Dorothea couldn’t understand her words, but the message was clear: she belonged to Petra, and Petra would deal with her as she saw fit.

“P-please…” Dorothea begged as Petra kneeded her chest. The mafioso ran her tongue around the outer shell of the waitress’s ear.

“Please what, mo bhábóg álainn?” she whispered.

“Please… satiate my desires…” she mumbled.

“I am having regret,” she teased. “My Fódlish is having weakness. I do not have understanding.”

Dorothea writhed in Petra’s lap, a groan of embarrassment leaving her mouth. Petra knew fully well what she wanted.

“Bean thaibhseach.” Petra’s whispered breaths tickled Dorothea’s ear, fueling her frustration. “All you are needing to do is ask, and I will be giving you what you are desiring.”

“Petra,” she murmured, hiding her embarrassed face in the crook of her captor’s neck. “I want you to touch me… down there…”

“Ah,” said Petra, feigning realization. “I have understanding now.”

The mafia princess dragged her hand from Dorothea’s breasts across her stomach, then down to her anxiously awaiting quim. Dorothea squeaked as Petra’s fingers began to play with her nethers.

“Oh?” Petra giggled. “You are already having this much wetness for me?”

“I-I…”

“Shh, áilleacht, you are not needing to give an answer. I am already knowing.”

Dorothea cried out in pleasure as Petra plunged a finger deep into her sex. She swirled her finger inside of the moaning girl and pressed her thumb to Dorothea’s clit, eliciting another yell from her. The waitress’ hips began to dance against the mafioso’s hand, and Petra decided to sate the squirming woman in her lap. She began to thrust her fingers in and out of her slit.

“Petra!” Dorothea cried. “M-more… more! I’m so close...”

The Brigidian accelerated her pace and drove a second finger inside her. Petra felt Dorothea’s inner walls grip her, and the brunette’s voice sang a beautiful hymn as her orgasm crested. Petra held Dorothea close as she rode out the high she felt from the future don’s touch. The waitress wrapped her arms around the mafioso, nuzzling her head into the crook of her neck.

“Did you have enjoyment, mo áilleacht?” Petra murmured.

“Y-yes, Petra…” voiced Dorothea feebly, not quite sure what her response would entail. Though satiated, she still felt vulnerable in the presence of the don’s granddaughter. “Th- thank you,” she added quickly, hoping it was what she wanted to hear.

“I will be calling this a payment for your crossing of the MacNearys,” Petra said.

“P-payment?” Dorothea murmured, raising her head. “You... aren’t going to kill me? I thought... after this... y- you’d-”

“Do not be calling this mercy,” said Petra curtly. “Your dealings with me are not being done, mo grá. No, I will not be killing you. To be disposing of your beauty would be much wastefulness. No, mo chailín álainn, your beauty is belonging to me now—to Petra MacNeary, future don.”

Dorothea quivered in Petra’s lap as the Brigidian beauty began to stroke her gently, possessively, like a pet. She felt utterly powerless—a submissive vassal to the mafioso’s will—and she loved it.

“P-Petra...” she muttered.

“You are being free to go,” Petra continued. “But I have certainty that you will not ever be forgetting how you were taking from us. When I am desiring you again, I will be having my ways of bringing you back to me. And you will be doing for me what you were doing today, many times over.”

“Y-yes, Petra,” Dorothea replied, the thought of it already filling her mind with excitement. “I... I will.”

“Very well, mo grá,” said the mafioso. “Be getting on your way.”

Petra slid Dorothea off her lap, eliciting a squeak of surprise. When the waitress was on her feet again, Petra swiveled her chair around, facing away just as she’d been at the start of their encounter.

“May I...” Dorothea began, but she trailed off when it was apparent Petra was not going to respond. Gingerly, she reached down for her clothes and redressed.

“You have readiness to be leaving?” came Petra’s voice sharply, just as Dorothea had donned her dress.

“I am,” the speakeasy waitress replied shakily.

Petra stood, still refusing to face Dorothea, and strode dutifully to a door in the back of the room. Dorothea followed after. When Petra opened the door, daylight shone in; they were facing an alley that led out toward the harbor. The female mafioso gave a curt nod, and Dorothea stepped cautiously through.

“I will be seeing you again?” Petra said suddenly, stopping Dorothea in her tracks.

Dorothea looked back toward Petra. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

፠፠፠፠፠፠፠

Dorothea strode confidently out of the kitchen, a plate of fried máthair shúigh held in hand. As she set it down in front of the burly dockworker who’d ordered it, she didn’t even pay any mind to his smarmy catcall of “Lookin’ like a real treat today, Miss Dorothea!” Somehow, ever since what had happened in the warehouse several days back, she hadn’t been bothered remotely as much by any of the men who ogled her at MacNeary’s. Perhaps it was because of a certain someone who occupied her mind more than anyone else.

As she walked back up to the kitchen, Cathal shot daggers into her with his glare. To say the least, the Brigidian chef was not happy in the slightest that Dorothea was still working at MacNeary’s. To his frustration, an order had come out from up high, delivered to every goon and goombah in the mafia: no harm must come to the waitress known as Dorothea Arnault, for anyone who laid a finger on her would earn a one-way trip to the bottom of the harbor.

“I am not having understanding,” muttered Cathal, looking away from Dorothea to return his focus to the chef’s knife he was sharpening. “You were thieving from us, broad, yet the don is meeting your crime with protection?!”

“Sorry, dear,” teased Dorothea, striding past Cathal to pick up the next finished plate of food. “An order is an order when it comes from the don.”

The future don, that is, she thought to herself. But to her, it made no difference. Cathal and the rest of the mafia were just as obedient to Petra as they were to Don MacNeary, and after what Dorothea had seen, she could understand why. It was hard not to obey someone like her.

Her head turned as she heard the sound of the trapdoor opening. Out from below came two Brigidian goombahs, who immediately set their sights on Dorothea.

“Miss,” one said. “You are having requirement to visit the headquarters now.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, setting the plate of food down. “Would you two gentlemen care to escort me there?”

This time, her trip to the warehouse was not as a prisoner, but as a guest of honor. The goombahs walked behind her as she made her way to the alley entrance. When she reached the door, she paused, allowing the men to enter before her; she knew they had formalities to handle inside.

Petra was seated in her chair, drumming her fingers on her desk, when she heard her door swing open. A man entered, bowing curtly as she turned around to face him.

“Miss MacNeary,” he announced. “The one called Dorothea Arnault is being here to see you, as you were requesting.”

A smirk spread slowly across Petra’s face.

“Bring her to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO this is my first like... story like this... so I didn't really know what I was doing lmao but it was our idea and we liked it so we ran with it.  
> So basically our thought process of making Petra a mafia boss was like the Italian mob in the US kinda equated to the Brigidian mob in Fodlan.


End file.
